


Come Home

by WraithWriter



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But feelings all the same, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Nina's capture and Zoya's guilt, Not nice feelings, Zoya has feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WraithWriter/pseuds/WraithWriter
Summary: Guilt is the sort of thing that will eat at you until you are consumed whole.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

The silence in her mind was so great it rang in her ears.

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing, save for her rasping breath in the stillness that should’ve been filled with irreverent laughter, scoffing, and all the silliness of a girlish tantrum.

She’d come looking only as it grew late.

She’d grumbled to herself as she stomped over tangled tree roots and fallen branches, soundly cursing every headstrong child and promising to wring the girl’s neck once they returned Os Alta.

Saints help her, she would drag Nina Zenik back to camp by the ear if she had to.

She _was_ too loud, she _was_ too memorable, and she _would_ get them caught. If she couldn’t see that, it was as good a sign as any that she was not ready to begin work in the field.

She had expected another argument with the young Heartrender. Hell, she had been itching for one. She had not expected the silence, heavy and pressing and horribly bare.

The moon had long since risen, lining everything this side of the ridge in silver.

She could not shout for her, so Zoya searched instead, pacing back and forth, doubling back again. And again. And again.

She ignored her breath coming quicker, her heart pounding harder, louder, roaring, competing with the frantic silence. She ignored the way her blood turned ice in her veins, cold, as if she were being bled dry by the crazed healers of these lands.

As she walked in ever-widening circles and arcs, only the moon bore witness to her search.


	2. Chapter 2

“Saints, Zoya, where’ve you been?” Genya half ran through the main hall of the Little Palace, red kefta billowing about her. “Nikolai’s been driving me mad. I truly haven’t any idea how you manage it.” She was smiling, scars pulling at the corner of her mouth. Zoya thought she might be sick.

“We made some extra stops.” Into the Kaelish towns closest to their camp, where it was all she could do to keep from tearing the roofs off houses and doors from their hinges. There’d been no sign of Nina or any indication of what truly may have happened that night. It felt like years ago she had begun falling and hadn’t stopped since. 

“Nevermind that. Come,” Geyna put a hand to her elbow, making to lead her back outside. “His Royal Pain-in-my-ass will want to see you. You look awful, by the way. What’s Nina been doing to you?”

“Genya - ”

“It’ll only be for a minute. Then I promise you can sleep for a week. I’ll bring you te - ”

“ _ Please. _ ”

Genya must have heard the desperation in that single word, for she stopped mid stride.

When she turned, Zoya found she could not meet her expectant eye. Genya would hate her for this. Lovely, gentle Genya would kill her for this and Zoya was inclined to let her.

Just outside, a group of Grisha children ran past the open doors, no doubt enjoying the end to the day’s classes. The Saints, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

  
“Genya - ” She shook her head, trying to stem the small, frailness of her voice. “I - there were Fjerdans in the area, we heard.  _ Nina,  _ she ….” Even as Zoya trailed off, she could see the moment Genya’s realization gave way to shock, and then to horror.


	3. Chapter 3

Zoya did not often allow herself the luxury of tears.

They seldom solved much, and more often than not led only to reddened eyes, blotchy skin, and more tears.

As such, she could probably name the specifics of when and why she had ever cried, it was such a rare occurrence. 

She had cried the night before her would-have-been wedding, when Sabina had thrown Liliyana Garin out of their decrepit little house.

She had cried in the streets of Novo Kribirsk over the cup of bergamot tea gone cold, when she vowed to see the mentor she had loved put in the ground.

She had sunk to her knees and cried on the ridge, fear and blame and anger pulled tight as chains under her skin.

But she had found tears running without any memory of them starting in the days, weeks and months since. She scrubbed at her eyes when she tasted salt on her lips or when she finally realized the paper in front of her was more smeared ink than legible writing.

She hated this feeling of loss - old friend, as it was - and wondered if it would ever stop. Sense told her that the only way to stop losing was to stop living, though perhaps she had resigned herself to a life of a special kind of torture by becoming a leader of a damaged people.

But she hated that only half as much as she despised herself. She hated the way the silence crept in and smothered the fragile calm so painstakingly maintained. Hated the thoughts that tapped along fault lines and searched for cracks, the frustration that flooded in like smoke. She hated that she had so carelessly allowed a soldier to be lost. She hated that it happened to be Nina Zenik, but hated most that she might have rathered it be anyone else.


	4. Chapter 4

She did not hear him approach and nearly flew out of her skin when he came into view, two glasses in hand. 

“Sorry,” he placed one on the desk in front of her before settling at its edge. She muttered her thanks, and for long seconds they watched the steam curl.

“No word, then?” Nikolai eventually spoke over the rim of his glass, watching her closely.

She wrapped her hands around hers, savouring the stinging warmth leaching back into her fingers. “Of course not.” _She’s probably dead._

Seeing as there was little he could say in reply to that, he settled for joining Zoya in gazing out the study window. He knew the days kept her busy, but the quiet of paperwork and correspondence quickly turned traitor. He felt it often enough himself, however deeply he threw himself into the work. Some demons, he had learned, craved chaos - others reigned in stillness. Even so, he knew Zoya did not desire his comfort or reassurance, so Nikolai offered her his silence.

The long sigh through her nose was the only sign she’d accepted it. “Genya, I - _Saints_. Looking her in the eye is almost worse.” She raked a hand back and through her hair, shutting her eyes. “She loves her.”

“As do you.” She glanced up sharply, denial on her tongue. Nikolai only took another sip of tea. “Come now, don’t look at me like that, Nazyalensky. It’s more than true, but I won’t tell, if you’re worried about tarnishing that reputation of yours.” She looked as if she’d like nothing more than to shove him from his perch. Nikolai knew that the only thing that kept her from doing just that was certainly not his title, but the weariness that had settled deep into her bones. He looked at her squarely, and spoke.

“I know you blame yourself, but wondering what you could have done differently - and it’s possible there was a good deal - will change nothing. I will only say that guilt is the sort of thing that will eat at you until you are consumed whole.”

She bristled at the way he looked at her, carefully unpitying but frustratingly well-meaning all the same. So she refused to meet his eyes, out of sheer stubbornness or pride. Out of fear of what he might see at the core of her, shameful and bleeding beside the truth he had so plainly laid bare.

When her gaze only remained stubbornly on the turrets gleaming with late-afternoon sun, Nikolai cleared his throat and stood. “We’re done for the night.”

He held up a hand, noting the way her eyebrows drew and lips parted, readying to argue. “Sleep. At least try to. And, yes, that’s an order.”

Her protests were minimal, sign enough of her defeat.

When he turned at the door, Nikolai could not help but feel that the woman sitting across the room was neither the commander nor friend he had come to recognize. Just then, she looked small and faded, curled at the corners like a picture tossed to flame.

“Zoya?”

The slightest tilt of her head was the only sign that he had been heard. 

“I’d like my general without any substantial chunks bitten out of her, thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

She wanted to go to her.

To laugh and cry and shake her senseless.

To demand to know what had happened and where she’d been, why she was  _ here _ , and why she hadn’t  _ come home _ .

Zoya watched as Genya took Nina into her arms, all broad smiles and joyous laughter.

The girl before her was whole. Perhaps a bit shadowed in places, but whole nonetheless.


	6. Chapter 6

Ketterdam really was painfully ugly.

A perpetual fog seemed to settle over its dank streets like a cold, wet blanket. It looked like a scene out of a novel, where the villain lurked in shadowed corners, waiting to snatch up an unsuspecting passerby. No doubt the financial and trade districts received better upkeep, but all the same. Looking out the clouded window of their boardroom, Zoya found herself missing the gleaming skyline and domed roofs of Os Alta.

She felt the sinking of the miserably thin mattress behind her and, after a long moment, the slight tug of hesitant fingers through her hair. “She’s alive, Zo,” Genya said softly. Zoya said nothing, and so she continued. “ _Breathe_ . _Please_.”

Zoya dropped her gaze to the hands curled in her lap, picking at spare threads. “She bore the crow and cup of that wretched boy’s gang. Those roses - Ekaterina - ”

Genya’s hands stilled. “Stop. Do not torture yourself.”

Ekaterina Zurailova was among the Grisha indentures they’d seen freed from one of the pleasure houses in West Stave. She had markings similar to Nina’s - swirling tattoos that were pretty enough until you learned their meanings.

“Nina is alive and well,” The Tailor said, resuming her aimless twisting and plaiting. “That is more of a blessing than we could have hoped for a year ago. Besides,” Genya began, a teasing lilt to her voice. “It seems she’s come out of it with a great deal.”

Zoya scoffed, thinking of the way Nina had been wrapped around the Fjerdan. “Please, I could kill her for that alone.”

“Hush!” Genya gave a sharp yank that had Zoya reaching back to swat at her leg. “They’re _in love_.”

“How nice.”

“Zoya, leave them be.”

They sat in quiet well after Genya had finished, the heavy black braid falling to rest along her spine. The general told herself that the tightness in her chest was some bizarre bout of homesickness for her broken country, not relief or anger or sadness. Still, when she had steeled herself enough, she found herself asking “Will she come home?”

To her credit, Genya did not mock her, only answered simply; “Certainly, but I couldn’t tell you when.”

“I could always have Nikolai demand she return with us….” Zoya heaved a sigh, rolling her eyes at the arched auburn brow. “But I won’t.”

Genya laid a warm hand to her arm where restless fingers still worried at rough fabric and did not speak until deep blue eyes met her own. “Give her time, Zoya. Let her sort through whatever it is she needs to - finish whatever it is she’s started here.

“When she is ready - and not a moment before - Nina will come home.” 


End file.
